They say "home is where the heart is" but I know my heart isn't cozied up on the bunkbed I used to sleep on.
It's in your pocket.
As much as I don't like it, I still somehow find a spec of delight as if it were dust on the ceiling fan. I'm so wrapped around your finger the only color I can see is purple, day in and day out.
My dreams are about that heart that is slowly beating in the pocket of your shirt that you threw on the floor earlier. You threw it away.
Just like me.
